The Lost Chapter
by missy42
Summary: This one-shot answers the one question on everybody's mind at the end of the novel (okay, so it was the one question on *my* mind): Whatever happened to the dog?


Disclaimer: The book The Great Gatsby was written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, not me. Likewise, all these characters are his, not mine.  
  
Author's note: Though Gatsby is not among my top ten novels, I did enjoy it, and appreciate its literary value. This was actually an assignment I had in my 11th grade AP English class. Apparently, Fitzgerald wrote a chapter to Gatsby that he took out of the final version of the book. So, our teacher asked us to write a possible "lost chapter." This is my version. It takes place between chapters 6 and 7. Enjoy!  
  
The Great Gatsby  
  
Lost Chapter  
  
In the midst of all this business with Gatsby, I happened upon another encounter with Tom and Mrs. Wilson. It came about completely by accident, as though I had been destined to have another fiasco with this infamous pair, and it came about in the form of a young K-9, the "police dog" Tom had bought for Mrs. Wilson the day I was introduced to her.  
  
It happened on my way home from work one Friday night. I had just stepped outside and was on my way to catch the six o'clock train to take me home when I saw her. I don't know how she made it to my building, and I doubt I ever will. I didn't recognize this lost soul at first, and, seeing as she had a collar and a license, I went over to see if I couldn't lend the ol' girl a hand. She didn't seem frightened as I neared her, and it was as though she recognized me, which struck me as a bit odd. From her license, I gathered that her name was "Little Daisy" and she belonged to a Catherine Pekkle. Upon discovering these details, I took a closer look at the pup and finally recognized it as Mrs. Wilson's dog, and they had used her sisters name on the tag. Well, at least they were discrete enough to not admit that they had gotten a dog together, I remember thinking.  
  
"My, but you have a good memory," I told "Little Daisy." I couldn't help but wonder if the dog's name had been the cause of that little argument between Tom and Mrs. Wilson that evening up in their apartment, or if the name had been the product of it. In any case, I though I should return her to the proper owner. I found the nearest pay phone and tried the Wilson garage, but Mrs. Wilson was out, and I did not think it appropriate to explain to Mr. Wilson about the dog, so, I excused myself then tried phoning the Buchanan residence. When a servant answered, I identified myself and asked to speak with Tom. Presently, I heard him asking:  
  
"Yeah, Nick, what is it?"  
  
"Well, Tom, it seems Mrs. Wilson's dog, 'Little Daisy' has run away and found its way into my care, and I thought you might want it back."  
  
"Huh? Oh, the bitch, right. So she ran away, huh? Well, I guess I'd better arrange to get it back - for Myrtle, of course. But I can't manage to meet you tonight, in fact -"  
  
As it turned out, Tom wasn't able to get away from his home until the following evening, and, for trying to be a good guy, I was reluctantly sucked into meeting him at the train station at 5 PM that Saturday night. I had to care for the dog until then.  
  
Before going home, I made the appropriate stops to buy a few provisions for this little boarder, including a new leash (she apparently had not run away while being walked). We then caught the seven o'clock train home.  
  
Daisy proved to be a lively little thing, sniffing every thing it could reach, and I was fortunate that she was not a he, or I would probably have a good many people angry with me. Back at my little shack, we ate, and I got out the dog bed and bowl that my dog had used when he was around (I never could bring myself to get rid of those things) and I think Little Daisy began to get a tad jealous, for, upon sniffing these items, the she began to growl at them. Nevertheless, she used them, though I was prepared to provider her with other accommodations.  
  
At meal time, however, she was much pickier, and Little Daisy refused to eat the canned dog food I had bought her. I figured Tom had pampered her at Mrs. Wilson's request, feeding her bits of table scraps rather than what was good for her. Or perhaps they fed her in such a way out of sheer ignorance. Its also completely possible that the dog was testing me, and using my ignorance of her diet to her advantage. In any case, I searched though my kitchen for anything that seemed worthy of this spoiled little brat. I happened upon some chicken Gatsby had given to me that had been left over from one of his parties, heated it up a bit over the stove, and then proceeded to watch Daisy greedily devour the dead bird, while eating my own meal at the same time.  
  
The meal had a rather good effect on her mood, I believe, for after eating - I began to suspect that she might have gone days without food while doing her traveling - Little Daisy seemed so much more vivacious and alive than before. She began sniffing about, to get to know her surroundings, and I had to be careful to not let her outside during the self-guided tour she was taking about my home. She had to go around several times before she could convince herself that she knew her way around, and every time she went around, she would charge toward the sliding glass door, and, no doubt believing that it was open, would bump her head on the glass. It was entertaining the first few times, but I soon began to wonder if she wasn't hurting herself, and then began to try stopping her when she got back around to the door.  
  
Once she felt familiar with her surroundings, she tried to find some other way to amuse herself. She found her amusment in her own rear end, which she seemed to think was a rival dog, and spent a good ten minutes chasing her own tail. I meanwhile, just sat back and enjoyed the miniature production Little Daisy provided me with, and what a show it was. I had spent many a Friday night by myself, and it was nice to have some company for a change, even if it didn't come in the form of a human. While watching Little Daisy chase her tail in vain, I was almost greatful that Tom had bought her - she had provided me, at least, with some entertainment, and companionship, if only for one night.  
  
After a while, I noticed Little Daisy had began to paw at the front door, and began looking at me with the most desperate look on her face. Putting two and two together, I got the leash and a bag and took her out for a Walk. The Walk was more or less inconsequential, save two little observations. The first of these was when she walked around in three circles before "doing her business." The other was that Little Daisy had a kind of car-chasing fetish. I noticed this little detail when admiring a stranger drive by in one of the newest Ford models, my personal favorite model so far. While admiring this specimen, I nearly forgot about the lively pup in my care, and Little Daisy took off after it. She caught me quite off guard, and I admit, and it surprised me how much force the little dog put into trying to catch up with that car. While I did just barely manage to keep a hold of Little Daisy's leash, she was able to drag me along with her a few feet before I was able to plant my feet and yank her back to my side. I learned my lesson quickly, and every time I heard a car coming, I would tighten my grip, so as not to lose her.  
  
It didn't stop there, though, and I was woken three times that night by her persistent barking at passing cars.  
  
From her actions the next day, or lack thereof, I gathered that Little Daisy had worn herself out that night, and I noticed a great contrast between her conduct the night before and her exhausted moping that Saturday. So, the day passed by a great deal less exciting than I had anticipated, until, finally, the appointed time to meet Tom at the train station came around. Tom had reported the news of the dog to Mrs. Wilson, and she wanted to see the pup as soon as possible, so she had arranged to meet him and Little Daisy outside the apartment building. Tom, however, wanted to have nothing to do with Little Daisy, and, as a result, I found myself in completely in charge of her on the way there, even though her technical owner was sitting right beside me the whole way. I wasn't bothered so much by having to take care of Daisy (indeed, we had become good friends, I like to think) as I was annoyed at having to spend time with Tom - I had had my fill of him, though I tried no to let my feelings toward him surface.  
  
I survived the trip, though, and Mrs. Wilson was in front of the apartment building, as planned. She was very happy to see Little Daisy, (a name Tom clearly unhappy with, by the way), and I began to feel more comfortable leaving Little Daisy in Mrs. Wilson's care.  
  
"Yes, did you miss Mommy, Little Daisy? Oh, you sweet thing, how did you get away from us? Oh, well, we'll make something up, and then the stories we'll be able to tell!" Then, Mrs. Wilson turned to me. "Oh, Nick, thank you so much for taking care of my little girl. I'm so sorry for the inconvenience. Really now, we must give you some kind of payment for caring for our precious Little Daisy, won't we Tom?"  
  
"Well, Myrtle I don't think -" Tom started.  
  
"Oh, no, really. Thank you, but no. That dog probably did more for me than I did for him. There's no need, really." I was being sincere, but at the same time, trying to get away from these people as quickly as I could while not getting further entangled with them.  
  
"Are you sure?" Mrs. Wilson asked.  
  
"He's sure, Myrtle. What part of 'no' don't you understand? Now quit nagging the poor guy."  
  
"It's really quite alright, Mrs. Wilson, but thank you just the same," I answered for myself.  
  
"Oh, alright," and Mrs. Wilson then changed the subject. "Now Tom, I want to go shopping, there was this new dress on the shop around the corner that I've just got to have. Oh, Nick, you must come with us, please, it's just the loveliest dress, and they've got some nice suits in there, too that you'd be interested in."  
  
"No, really, thank you for the invitation, but I really should be going."  
  
"Oh, all right then. Thanks again," she answered, and I was going to get as far away from them as I could, but something about the dog's face told me that I should stick around, of only to look after "Little Daisy." It wasn't so much a change in the dog's expression as it was a bad feeling I suddenly felt, and I managed to get away from them while not really letting the trio out of my sight.  
  
Mrs. Wilson went into the clothing store around the corner, just as she'd wanted, but she couldn't bring the dog in, so, she handed it to Tom and went in by herself. After about ten minutes, Mrs. Wilson reappeared, and spoke with Tom for a few seconds. The whole time, I noticed Little Daisy getting very excited over something, and began to remember a fateful detail of my observations the night before - Little Daisy's car-chasing fetish - and I became painfully aware of all the ominous automobiles on the street. I realized this too late though, and as Tom - who obviously did not know the dog very well, and had a very loose grip on the leash to start with - went to tie the dog onto a nearby tree, Little Daisy bolted after a big black Ford.  
  
What happened the next instant is a blur. I remember hearing Mrs. Wilson scream for her dog...car horns were blown...Little Daisy yelped as she disappeared under the black Ford, her crushed little body emerging after what seemed to be an eternity. It was all over for Little Daisy.  
  
I was in shock for quite sometime - I had never seen any one or anything be run over by a car before - and the next thing I knew, I was back at home. By that time, it was dark, and I had no memory as to how I got there.  
  
--------  
  
It's really odd how much that event affected me. Though I had barely known Little Daisy, I couldn't help but feel some sort of void when loosing her, though now I realize that it might have just been left-over shock in disguise. Still, the house seemed strangely vacant that night, as though haunted by a K-9 spirit that was struggling to return.  
  
Once I emerged from that prolonged period of shock and started thinking clearly, I began to get angry. Tom had been so careless with Little Daisy that he let her run out into the street - he let her die. Little Daisy was such a great girl, too. She could have made some child very happy on Christmas Day, or been company for a lonesome old woman, a good companion for Mrs. Wilson, even - goodness knows she had been company enough for me. She really could have brought so much joy to someone's life, she really did have the potential. But, no, she had to fall into the clutches of the self-absorbed, arrogant Tom Buchanan, collage football major. 


End file.
